


blow, blow, thou winter wind

by havisham



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, Porn Battle Amnesty, Pre-Canon, Scoundrelry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy deals with Wickham's (in)gratitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blow, blow, thou winter wind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle Prompt Stack for the following prompt: 
> 
> Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen, Fitzwilliam Darcy/George Wickham, first, betrayal, charm, inexperience, blowjob, pride

Darcy had always known that George Wickham would cause his family grief. From the first, he had been like that. Outwardly charming but inwardly seething. Ungrateful for whatever he was given. Unkind. He was everything Darcy hated -- and yet. Darcy was a faithful son. He, at least, would not set aside the duty his father had given him before his untimely death. If Wickham was meant for the church, to the church he would go. 

It seemed almost immediately obvious, however, that Wickham’s interests at university were of a decidedly earthly nature. It was not unusual to see young women -- all comely, all scantily dressed -- tripped out of the doors of Wickham’s room in the early morning. Darcy, whose own chambers were only a few steps away would see them often enough and think how bitter would have been his father’s disappointment, to see his investment spent so carelessly. 

But Darcy was helpless to act, at least so far. Wickham had not yet been sent down, though that was only a matter of time.

*

Darcy woke early one day, even before the first rays of light had touched his window frame. He had received a letter last night from his aunt, in which she threatening to visit him. As a result, he had hardly been able to sleep. Finally, still restless, he rose from his bed and dressed. Perhaps Bingley would be be up soon, and planning to go to town -- and Darcy would be able to absent himself long enough to make Lady Catherine’s visit impossible. 

He walked down the stairs, his head occupied by such plans when he nearly bowled into a young man who was standing at the bottom of the steps. Darcy saw him stumble and was dismayed. Was he drunk? Would a porter need to be sent for? He reached out and steadied the young fellow and received a muffled thanks for his efforts. 

Examining him a little closer, Darcy saw that he could not be another student at the college -- his clothes were far too rough for it -- but there was something of Bingley in his wide-open gaze. Darcy was about to enquire as to the young man’s intentions for being there when Wickham opened his door with great violence and took in the scene. 

“Still here, are you?” he said with a sneer. Darcy stiffened at his tone, but was startled to see Wickham lurch past him -- smelling of vice and some unwholesomeness that he could not quite name -- and stuff some coins into the young man’s hands. “Be off with you, or else my brother here will no doubt summon the guard.” 

The young man gave Darcy a look of alarm and took off towards the wall that separated the college grounds from the town itself. He climbed the wall as easily as a monkey would and was soon not visible at all. Once he was gone, Darcy turned back to Wickham and said, appalled, “Your brother? Those were cruel rumors, and untrue.” 

And Wickham laughed at him, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ of amusement, rimmed red. Really, he looked quite debauched. Darcy was appalled. He hadn’t realized it had gotten so bad. 

“Wickham,” he began severely and Wickham’s amusement changed into something colder, more mocking. “George,” Darcy tried again. They had been friends, once, hadn’t they? It had been so long ago, but he was almost sure of it. “You can’t keep on this way. Bad company and bad habits will ruin you.” 

“You mind your own business and I will mind mine,” said Wickham still smiling, still cold.

*

Lady Catherine arrived soon after. It was useless to escape to Bingley’s, as all routes were cut off. Instead Darcy was trapped for a dull afternoon insides, listening to his aunt hold forth her view of everything and nothing. Sometimes she paused and that was Darcy’s cue to nod or smile, to give any indication that he was listening. Poor sick Anne coughed a little, and that was her own contribution to the conversation. 

Darcy listened with growing dismay when his aunt’s conversation turned to Rosings and the need for him to spend his summer there. He was willing to risk Lady Catherine’s displeasure and refuse outright when there was a sharp knock at the door. “Come in,” Darcy said, thinking it was probably the porter coming to bring away the tea, but instead it was Wickham. 

Wickham, when he was pressed and cleaned, presented quite a dashing figure. He invited himself to the party, helping himself to the scones, prattling some nonsense all the time. Lady Catherine looked at him. Simply looked. She had never approved of the elder Darcy’s fondness for the Wickham boy, and she could never forgive boldness on anyone else’s part but her own. 

Like a great boulder cracked by a trickle of water, Lady Catherine, who had previously shown all signs that she intended to stay in Darcy’s rooms the whole day, soon took her leave. She begged Darcy to come visit her at Rosings. To Wickham, she extended no such invitation. Once the door had closed on her and her company, Darcy felt as if he would faint in relief. And if he should, Wickham stood close enough to him that he could catch him. 

Darcy cast himself onto one of the chairs in front of the fire and wished for nothing more than a drink -- something stronger than tea. He was surprised to see Wickham had a glass of brandy to him. He was less surprised that Wickham seemed to know exactly where the liquor was kept and that he helped himself to a greater share. 

They eyed each other over their glasses and Darcy felt obliged to speak. “Thank you,” he said. “Aunt Catherine is very…” Words failed him. He blinked. “Conscientious. But sometimes she can be…” 

“Unbearable? Tightfisted? A cruel bitch?” 

“No. She is very involved in her charitable work.”

“Ha!” Wickham looked at him. There was a queer expression on his face, both scheming and thoughtful. “Well, I can be charitable too.” He drained his wine glass and set it aside. Very deliberately, he got on his knees and came toward Darcy, until he grasped both of sides of Darcy’s thighs and pushed them apart. 

Very quietly, Darcy asked him what he was doing. 

“Charity,” Wickham said. “What else? I can teach you something you badly need.” 

“What is that?” Darcy said. He felt quite queer himself. He knew that he ought to push Wickham away; he should put Wickham out by his ear. But he found, to his distress, that he enjoyed the sight of Wickham on his knees. 

Wickham knew him too well. Without hesitating for a second, he unbuttoned Darcy’s breeches - which were of the more somber English-style rather than the more licentious French, which Wickham himself favored -- and withdrew Darcy’s cock. 

Wickham took Darcy’s cock into his mouth with barely a smirk as a warning. Darcy’s mouth opened but he forgot to close it again. Instead he took a handful of Wickham’s curly hair and yanked it, roughly. It was hardly gentlemanly, but this was hardly gentlemanly circumstances. 

The room was quiet, except for the sound of their breathing. He could feel Wickham's throat work against his cock. It was a hideous, wonderful feeling. Wickham pulled away before he could come and looked at him with dark, hot eyes. He took Darcy’s cock, now so hard and straining against his hip and brought him off quickly, his eyes never leaving Darcy’s. 

After Darcy had come -- a spurt of semen white against the brown of Wickham’s hand, Wickham wiped it away against Darcy’s breeches. 

“I’ve decided not to go into the church,” Wickham said, getting up with a slight groan. “I’ll need the money for a commission. When can I have it?” 

“As soon as you’re allowed,” Darcy said, a little breathlessly, trying to stand as well and straighten himself up. Wickham pushed him back down, easily. 

“Good,” Wickham said, pleased. “Then you’ll never have to see me again. Won’t that be grand?” 

“Yes,” Darcy said, though he doubted it. Wickham was too much of an opportunist to go away for long. Though he should condemn him for it, he found that he couldn’t, just then. 

*

(Later, when Darcy saw Wickham again, with Georgiana, he had no such difficulty.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Sath/Dr. Chuck Tingle for beta-ing this. All remaining mistakes & etc.
> 
> Title from the Bard, natch.


End file.
